


Mansion Life

by AStarToSteerHerBy



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:02:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStarToSteerHerBy/pseuds/AStarToSteerHerBy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles and one-shots about life in the Avengers mansion during the in-between times when life is less complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The Prologue

These are my drabbles and one-shots about life in the Avengers mansion. That's all they are, just fluff. There's a line in the Chronicles of Narnia, The Last Battle, in which the main character is complaining about things always going wrong, to which her companion replies, oh no, there are so many wonderful days full of wonderful things, one after another, slipping into weeks and months and years of happy, peaceful time. I've always been fascinated by the in-between times of all the fandoms I've ever been a part of.

What are normal meals like in the Great Hall, when there's not a Quidditch game coming or some disaster about to strike?

What kinds of things do normal hobbits do in the Shire when the Bagginses aren't stirring up trouble? What was life in Edoras like before Saruman interfered?

Does the Doctor ever have a normal trip without the Daleks or the Silence or whoever trying to destroy the universe?

What's daily life like on the Enterprise, when they're just en route somewhere and no enemies are about?

These ideas fascinate me. So I've taken Marvel's brilliantly rendered movie heroes, stuck them together, and I let the stories flow.

Some warnings: I'm dismally uneducated in the Marvel universe, please forgive my errors. I only (actively) ship canon pairs, mostly because I'm too chicken to try anything else (feel free to read between the lines, though). Loki shows up as an "uneasy ally" for lack of a better term. He is still very much the god of mischief, but he helps the team more than hinders. COULSON IS NOT DEAD. I'm in denial and it's my story, that's why. I take a lot of inspiration from things I see on tumblr – if I use someone else's idea and run with it, I promise to try and give credit to the original author. If that's you and you're not ok with it, please say something nicely and I'll take it down. Insert generic I-own-nothing-and-no-one disclaimer here. Suggestions welcome. Feedback even more so.


	2. Saturday Morning

Saturday Morning

Natasha Romanov woke up instantaneously, without preamble or mental fogginess or multiple thumps on the snooze button. One moment she was sound asleep, the next she was completely awake. It was as simple as that. She also knew without thinking that she was in her bedroom in the mansion, and that it was approximately 8:30am on Saturday morning. She lay in bed for several long moments, content to watch dust motes drifting through a shaft of sunlight that had poked around the side of curtain. Then she stretched, threw back the comforter and shrugged into a light bathrobe.

Natasha stepped out of her bedroom, still barefoot, and listened. The house was unusually quiet. She opened her mouth to ask JARVIS who was in the house and where, then decided against it. Having an omniscient, electronic butler that lived in the rafters was going to make her lazy. She'd find everyone herself.

First, she peeked into the rec room adjacent her bedroom. Thor was sprawled out on one of the overstuffed sofas, Jane tucked against his side and sleeping soundly as if it were the most comfortable she'd ever been. Three DVD cases lay scattered on the floor; apparently, Jane had introduced the Norse god to the Star War trilogy last night. Tasha briefly wondered what Thor thought of humans' ideas on space travel. She made a mental note to ask him if the stars really did zoom by in streaks of light, the way Lucas had imagined onscreen. Thor snored lightly in his sleep. Natasha didn't personally know very many couples – romance was hard to come by in the spy business – but Jane and Thor seemed to pull it off without the major hiccups that couples in the movies always had to deal with. They never whined or moped during periods of separation, and if Jane worried when Thor went off to battle, she kept her opinions to herself. Together, they seemed blissful and content, but never mushy. And best of all, they didn't shove their happiness in other people's faces. As she shut the door, Natasha decided that being in love didn't seem quite so bad, if it could be done Thor and Jane's way. It wasn't the first time she'd had that thought.

Next, she stopped into the kitchen. Steve sat at the counter with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. He appeared to be browsing the sports section. A crumpled piece of newsprint and a pencil lay on the floor by his feet. Steve often attempted the crossword, but couldn't understand so many of the references that he usually wadded it up in frustration. He looked up at her and smiled.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said cheerfully. None of the women of the mansion had been able to break Steve of his habit of calling them all 'ma'am.' After a week, they stopped trying. From anyone else, it sounded chauvinistic, sarcastic, or overly-formal. From Steve, it was simply endearing. She accepted a hot cup of coffee from him, doctored it a bit with some sugar and a generous dose of milk, and continued her roaming through the house.

Sipping at the coffee, she padded downstairs to the basement. Before even reaching the bottom she could hear a TV blaring, and it sounded like cartoons. She pushed open the door to the TV room just as Tom snapped his tail in a mousetrap and Jerry scampered off screen. Clint's sandy brown head poked over one of the couches. A plate of leftover pizza and half a glass of chocolate milk sat on the side table. The excessive volume showed he wasn't wearing his hearing aids. Natasha chewed on that fact as she quietly shut the door. Though he didn't care for them, Clint RARELY went without his aids, and few people knew about his hearing loss. He clearly felt more at home in the mansion than she realized.

Across the corridor, another light was on. Bruce and Phil had their backs to the door and were utterly engrossed in building a gigantic house of cards. She was unsure if they had been up for hours working on it, or picking up a previous project. Although, she mused, this room was situated directly over one of Tony's flight test rooms, so it was unlikely the tower had stood for any great length of time. Phil held four different cards in place between his fingers while Bruce steadily placed the two on top that would hold them there. Natasha knew she would risk taking her life in her hands if she made any noise to startle them, so she slipped silently away.

Tony, she guessed, would be down in the second basement (if he was even awake) tinkering with one of his suits or some other gadgetry. Sure enough, the sound of machinery whirring drifted up the stairs as she descended. Through the windows lining the lab, she saw him sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a complex piece of tech with bits and pieces strewn around. The multi-jointed droid arm that he often called Butterfingers hovered about his head. As she pressed her palm to the access pad, Tasha saw Pepper sitting primly on a nearby stool, clicking away at a laptop balanced on her knees. She looked up as the red head entered.

"Good morning, Natasha," she chirped brightly.

"Morning, Pepper." Tasha lounged against a counter with her coffee. "He's up early," she said, indicating Tony with her mug. Pepper laughed.

"Don't be silly," she said. "He hasn't gone to bed yet."

"Excuse me," Tony piped up. "HE can hear you, you know. And since you seem to be delivering coffee, Miss Romanoff, an espresso with three sugars, please." Natasha huffed, but he was already moving on before she could reply. "Are you going to hold this screw in place or not? Never mind, I'll do it myself. Bring the white cord around to the front. The white. The white." She looked at Pepper, who smiled and beckoned to the far counter without looking away from her laptop. The espresso maker stationed there emitted a final hiss and switched itself off. Was there anything Pepper wasn't prepared for?

As Tasha walked back up the stairs, she mulled over her plans for the day. She wanted to give her input some new gear that S.H.I.E.L.D. was developing, and there was a new Greek restaurant not far from HQ that she was interested in trying. After she got back home…

Natasha paused mid-step. When had this place become home? When had that happened? Probably sometime between Clint "accidentally" getting a spoonful of peanut butter in her hair and Thor asking her to teach him how to tie his shoelaces. Natasha always felt she had the wandering kind of soul which never really had a home anywhere; but in a sudden burst of clarity, she knew that for the rest of her life, anytime someone mentioned 'home,' this would the image that came to her mind. She was ok with that.


	3. Creamsicle

Creamsicle

Pepper and Tony sat across from each other on one of the Stark jets, arguing.

"It would relieve your stress level," he started. Pepper cut him off.

"No."

"It's a socially responsible thing to-"

"No."

"Do you realize what you're saying–"

"Since when did you–"

"You would rather leave a poor, helpless–"

"I'm not saying that, I am NOT saying–"

"Yes, you would rather–"

"Tony!" Pepper slammed her folder down on the table between them and leaned forward, capturing his gaze. The sudden intensity of her actions cut off his next argument. "Why is it so important to you for me to get a cat?"

Tony opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He looked at the carpet. He opened his mouth again, then stopped again. Looking up at her, the honest truth came spilling out.

"Because I know you had to give away your cat when you came to work for me, and even though you said it wasn't a problem, I saw you crying and I know you keep a picture of her in the back of your planner, and I…I want you to be happy." He looked at her with an apology in his face. She only hesitated for a moment (years as his assistant had taught her how to stay on her toes, but sometimes he just moved too fast).

"Have you been stealing my planner?"

"No! Well, not really. Just borrowing, I couldn't remember what day I–"

"You stole my stuff!"

"It's not stealing if the person has intent to return–"

"Anything else you've 'borrowed' of mine? Would you like my phone? My shoes? My–"

"Pepper!" Tony moved forward and took both her hands in his. "I just want you to be happy. And I know your cat was important to you." She squeezed his hands and smiled, accepting his explanation.

"I AM happy."

And that was the end of the conversation.

An abnormally high amount of chaos ensued for the next several weeks, keeping them both – and the Avengers team, and the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D. for that matter – busy and preoccupied. Pepper awoke one dreary Tuesday morning and trudged downstairs to start the coffee. Her only coherent thought for the day had been 'please God, let today be ordinary' when she unlocked and opened the front door to grab the paper and screamed.

A cardboard box was sitting on the porch, mewling pathetically. Pepper's brain absorbed and reorganized this information and she realized that something INSIDE the box was whimpering. She bent down and unfolded the flaps, and looked directly into the eyes of white and ginger kitten. It stared at her and licked its nose.

Twenty minutes later the tiny fuzzball was sitting on the kitchen table, surrounded by half a team of half-asleep super heroes. Thor kept wanting to know what the animal's purpose was, as it was clearly too small to eat. Clint kept trying to feed it bacon. Pepper was on the internet, trying to figure out if was old enough to actually eat food yet.

"We're going to keep it, right?" asked Jane. A clamor of voices responded with various amounts of enthusiasm, both negative and positive.

"It would be like a mascot!"

"Would we all have to get matching orange and white uniforms with cat ears?"

"We could get JARVIS to teach it tricks!"

"What if Thor steps on it?" This earned Clint a dirty stare from said god.

"What I want to know," Pepper's voice rose above the rest and Tony stiffened imperceptibly. "Is how someone managed to get up to our front door in the middle of the night without tripping the security system." The resident billionaire piped up suspiciously fast.

"That-is-a-very-good-question-Miss-Potts-and-I-am-going-to-and-check-on-that-right-now-because-it-could-be-a-very-serious-problem-and-I…" His rambling faded as he headed out the kitchen door and down the stairs.

"So, if no one's going to call dibs, can I keep the cat?" asked Clint, eating his bacon himself since the kitten showed no interest.

"Hey, who says you get first pick?" challenged Bruce. "Maybe I'd like a pet."

"What do either of you know about raising a kitten?" asked Jane skeptically.

The clamor broke out again. It looked to be the start of a boisterous argument when five cell phones buzzed and chirped simultaneously. Pepper knew that generally meant one thing, which JARVIS confirmed for her seconds later.

"Director Fury requests all Avengers to assemble at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters immediately." The room emptied in a flurry of activity, and two minutes later, silence settled around the mansion. Pepper walked back into the dining room and locked eyes with the kitten. She crossed the room in three long strides and lifted the cat from the table to cuddle in her arms as she looked around the vacated room. Bruce's oatmeal was still steaming.

"And that is why," she announced to no one in particular. "That is why you are going to be MINE, little Creamsicle." The kitten purred against her chest, not so different from the way Tony's arc reactor hummed against her skin when she came in contact with it. She grabbed the cardboard box, a dishtowel, a bowl and a carton of milk out of the fridge and headed up to her room.

The team didn't return home until late that night, so late that it was actually the next day. As one, they lumbered to their rooms and half-fell onto their beds, some not even bothering to kick off their shoes. Except Tony. His automated system had removed his armor for him, so he stole silently to Pepper's doorway, where light streamed under the door. He pressed his ear against it.

"Who's a pretty kitty?" he heard her croon in a sing-song voice. "You're a pretty kitty! Oh yes, you are! Pretty kitty." He smiled to himself and crept away. Tony only had one thought that night as crawled into bed.

Mission accomplished.


	4. Cherry Picking

Cherry Picking

If anyone had been passing through the U-Pick Highland Cherry Orchard late one sunny June afternoon, and just happened to stand directly under the tallest tree in the orchard and looked up, that person would have been treated to a spectacular and unique view of Clint Barton's butt.

It would not have been a very clear view, however, as Clint was at the very top of the tree and it was heavily laden with green leaves fluttering in the breeze and deep red fruit hanging in clumps. Having filled four large buckets with the fat cherries, Clint was now perched in the highest limb he could find that would support his weight, watching the clouds float across the sky.

Many people assumed that it was his time in the circus that made the super spy so unafraid of heights. They had it backwards. Clint had never balked at heights, not even as a young child. He had frightened the wits out of every adult in his life with his predilection for climbing anything he could – houses, trees, lamp poles – and then hanging off the edge with his arms spread. Why did you do that? the adult would always screech after he had returned to the ground. The answer was always the same: I wanted to know what it felt like to fly, Clint would say while the adult clutched at him, or checked his limbs for injuries (even though he never fell, not once), or hauled him off to his room. No one ever seemed to hear his answer, though.

Sitting in the tree now, decades later, Clint felt the same pang of longing as he watched two blue jays soaring above the orchard. Sometimes he positively ached to know the thrill of flight first hand. He had flown in planes – hell, he was a pilot himself – and Thor and Iron Man had both carried him while flying during missions, but he wanted more. He wanted to live in the layer between the clouds and the sky where the air was clear and everything was bright and crisp. He wanted to feel the rush of wind as he sped earthward, only to catch himself and drift off lazily, gliding here or there or anywhere or nowhere, or everywhere all at once. The tree swayed lightly in the first evening wind, and Clint closed his eyes and could almost imagine drifting weightlessly through the heavens, like the hawk whose name he shared. A booming voice broke through his daydream.

"Ho there, friend! We must go soon, else we shall be late!" Thor shouted up at him amicably, effortlessly balancing a long ladder over one shoulder. Clint sighed, and swung himself dexterously down to ground. He scooped up his pails of fruit, and noticed that Thor only carried one – a nearly empty one.

"There's nothing in your bucket, Thor," said Clint incredulously. "What have you been doing?"

"No, my friend, it is not empty. See here, I have gathered several handfuls of the churries."

"Cherries."

"Yes, those." He tipped the bucket to show that it wasn't completely empty, but it was far from full.

"Thor, we've been here for two hours. We're supposed to bring back a trunkful for the potluck tonight. Where are your cherries, man?"

The Asgardian grinned, and Clint saw that his teeth were stained dark red. He let his forehead fall forward into his palm with a slap. He knew exactly where Thor's cherries were.


	5. Breakfast Is Served

Breakfast is Served

Thor was in the kitchen, and it was not going well. JARVIS had long since deactivated the fire alarm system in the surrounding rooms and helpfully turned on the fan over the range, but an acrid stench and bluish smoke hung about the space.

"CURSE THIS WRETCHED MEAL!" He bellowed, throwing a whole egg into a frying pan with enough force that it shattered and splattered yellow and clear goo over the entire stovetop and up the wall and began sizzling on any hot surfaces. He had seen Jane preparing food on his previous stay in Midgard, and she had made it look so easy. Having been back on Earth for several months now, living in the many-roomed Avengers mansion, he wanted to provide some small thanks to his teammates with the simple gesture of making breakfast. It was not going well.

"Perhaps, sir" suggested JARVIS for the tenth time, "we should start with something simpler? Hot cereal, or…" Thor cut him off with an inarticulated growl. He crossed his arms and stared sullenly at the mess – yellow and white hissing and spitting in the pan and around the burner; smoke rising from the orange element where who-knew-what had spilt over, a heap of steaks burnt to the sight and taste of shoe leather, and a skillet of shredded potatoes, the bottom layer scalded and still smoking faintly. JARVIS wisely remained silent.

Brooding, Thor caught a glimpse of movement out of the side of his eye. He turned as Natasha came padding silently into the kitchen, a mug of tea in one hand and an open book in the other, her nose wrinkled against the smell. She took in the mutilated food, the pile of dishes on the counters and the sulking god in his earthly pajamas in one long gaze and smiled faintly.

"You look about as fit to cook breakfast as Tony does when he's hung over," she said wryly. Thor's scowl deepened. Tasha sat her book and mug down and moved to god's side, looking up at him. "I'm starving. Let's produce something edible, hmm?" Thor looked at her warily; was she teasing him or offering to help? She turned off all the burners on the range and scraped any charred remains into the trash, chatting lightly.

"My mother used to cook when I was young. Not always, but often. I watched at her elbow while she stirred and folded the most mouthwatering pelmeni. I never did get the hang of how she used to…" Natasha paused and glared at Thor, who was still standing in the middle of the kitchen. "Are you going to help, or what? I'm not going to do it all for you. Get out some fresh food." Thus prodded into action, Thor opened the refrigerator and pulled out another carton of eggs, a bag of hash browns and a packet of meat while Natasha swept the dishes into the sink with a series of clatters and crashes.

"Now," she said, setting out new frying pans, "to begin with, you were cooking much too hot, and second, you need some oil in these pans to keep the food from scorching." She began explaining the fundamentals of cooking, methodically and patiently, while the smoke in the room cleared. Soon the appetizing aroma of well seasoned steak permeated the kitchen.

"Lift the skillet up at an angle…yes, like that…then quickly slide the spatula under the egg. Yes... now flip it over in one smooth motion; not too hard or you'll break the yolk." Natasha's low voice hummed through the movements as breakfast seemed to materialize before Thor's eyes. Soon the platters were full, and with the dexterity of their rank as superheroes, the two carried three serving dishes, a stack of plates and glasses, several handfuls of silverware, a carafe of juice and a pot of fresh coffee in one trip to the dining room.

It was empty.

"JARVIS, where the hell is everyone?" Natasha demanded.

"Misters Stark and Banner are at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters," he answered briskly. "They are being briefed by Director Fury on new intell received late last night from North Korea. Miss Potts went with them. Captain Rogers is still in Washington D.C…" Thor cut him off.

"Is there no one here who will dine with us?" he asked. JARVIS paused.

"I believe Miss Pott's kitten is in her room," came the answer. Tasha turned and grinned at Thor, still balancing the dishes.

"Do you know what this means?" She asked conspiratorially. Thor shook his head, unsure why she seemed delighted. "More for us!"

The two sat at the table, eating and sharing. Natasha put away third helpings of it all, while Thor finished off the rest. She talked of her childhood and the happy memories she still carried with her; lullabies sung by her grandmother, the sight of the first snowfall every winter, a silly child's game involving dolls and coins flung across the room with rubber bands. Thor listened, and matched her tales with stories of Asgard, and his fear of falling off the rainbow bridge, learning to ride a horse and the time Loki had to bodily haul him out of a battle because he had accidently hit himself in the head with Mjolnir. The hours slipped by quietly as the coffee cooled in their mugs. Finally, Thor stood and stretched.

"We have many dishes to clean," he announced. Natasha leaned back in her chair and smiled.

"There's a rule here on earth about that," she declared. Thor looked at her questioningly. "The ones who do the cooking are not responsible for the washing up." Thor grinned.


	6. PIzza Man

Pizza Man

It was only Josh's second week on the job as a pizza delivery boy, and he was trying very hard not to muck it up, because he really needed this job. So far it had gone well; the GPS on his phone had served him well and most customers tipped generously when it was obvious the pizza was still hot.

It was an unusually slow evening and Josh was being trained on taking phone orders when a call came in from a man with an articulated British accent who called him 'sir.' He sound bored, frankly, as if he were repeating the order from someone else. Josh asked for the delivery address and heard his manager gasp at his side as he typed it into the system. She dashed through the swinging door into the industrial kitchen while he hung up the phone and began yelling (a first, in Josh's experience thus far).

"I needed these pizzas assembled, now! Move them up to the front of the line!" Must be a hell of a VIP if she's memorized the address, he mused. Sharon burst back through the door. The poor hinges squeaked in defiance at the mistreatment. She proceeded to give Josh detailed instructions to the house – mansion, she called it – and permission to break the speed limit if possible.

Twelve frantic minutes later (was it even possible to cook a pizza that fast?) Josh and eight steaming pizza boxes were loaded into his little Nissan with the magnetic pizza shop sign on top and he was hitting the accelerator in the direction of – he looked at the address again – Fifth Avenue. He found the place quickly and without difficulty. He parked next to the curb and got out, engine still idling. He couldn't help but stare. The place was HUGE. Three stories, immaculate landscape, surrounded by a hedge and a dozen towering trees. He knew his mouth was hanging open, and he attempted to close it. Sharon's parting words suddenly sounded in his mind: 'Don't dawdle!' He grabbed the stack of pizzas and headed up to what was clearly the front door.

Josh took a deep breath. He wondered for a small moment if the Brit would answer the door in a tux, because his voice sounded the type of chap who would do such a thing. He rang the doorbell – a very normal, two-tone chime – and it sounded like all hell broke loose within. He was already used to hearing people yell 'pizza's here!' upon his arrival, but this sounded more like a group of rhinoceroses playing soccer, with one voice booming above the rest.

"The evening meal has arrived!" Much thundering ensued. Finally, the door was wrenched open by a panting, dark haired man with his glasses hanging precariously off one ear. Behind him was a tangled mess of limbs and clothes and men shouting oaths. How the average-looking guy managed to escape the dog pile of behemoths tussling on the floor was anybody's guess.

"How much?" the guy asked, fixing his glass and taking the pizzas.

"Uh…" Josh looked down at the receipt. "Nin-" he looked back up just in time to see a woman with dark red hair materialize behind the guy, catch the back of his knee with her foot and yank him down to the floor with a kick, sweeping the boxes out of his hands and into her arms. The dog pile hooted as one as she primly walked away with her prize. He momentarily wondered how angry Sharon would be if he just walked away right now, and showed up back at the restaurant with no payment. He shifted his weight nervously, unsure of what to do, when a slender blonde woman walked around the corner and held out some cash, folded in half. She pressed it into his hand and smiled warmly.

"No change," she said. Josh fumbled at his words, eventually managing to spit out the response drilled into his head by his trainer.

"Thank you, miss. Have a nice evening." He turned back to his idling Nissan as the door clicked shut behind him. Quite suddenly, his nose was assaulted by the scent of pine trees and…something else. The sea? For no identifiable reason, it made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air in front of him seemed shimmer, like a mirage, then coalesce, and then, extraordinarily, a tall man with black hair stepped through thin air as if he were stepping through a curtain. He leered slightly at Josh.

"Do you have the food?" he asked in deep, eloquent voice.

"Wh-what?" Josh stammered.

"The food! You are the one who delivers the meal called pizza, yes?"

"I…well, yeah…I–" Josh pointed over his shoulder at the front door, and wondered if he looked as moronic as he felt. The dark haired man grunted, and stepped through thin air again, disappearing. After a beat, several people in the giant house screamed and there was a loud crash followed by muted clattering, as if a bookcase had fallen over.

Josh bolted. He didn't know what was going on, and he wasn't going to stay to find out. He dove into the car, yanked it into drive and sped off down the street. He realized he was headed the wrong way and promptly executed a large and very illegal u-turn in the middle of the street. He drove past the mansion without looking at it and turned onto the main street.

He was halfway back to the pizza parlor when he realized he was shaking. He pulled off into an empty lot and parked, rolling down the windows to gulp at some fresh air. The folded cash was still clutched in his hand. He looked at it for the first time and his mouth fell open; the woman had given him two bills. She had paid more than double and told him to keep the change. He stared at the money, dumbstruck.

Through the open window came the briny scent of the ocean, very much out of place, drifting in on a cool breeze. Josh looked up and jumped. There in front of him, lounging casually against the stop sign, was the man who had stepped of thin air at the mansion. Josh didn't pause any longer to process the situation; he put the car gear and drove off as fast as he could, the Nissan whining in protest.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Josh realized that the dark haired man was eating a piece of pizza.


	7. Cockroach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All props to the artist whose idea this originally was: cfugitt.tumblr.com/post/24979661827/tony-steve-clint-bruce

Cockroach

Tony was sitting on a sofa in the rec room, reading a magazine. Well, he wasn't actually sitting; he was lying on his back, head propped on the arm rest with one leg flung over the back and the other on the floor. He wasn't actually reading either, mostly just looking at the pictures and skimming over any articles that looked half interesting. He'd been awake for 31 hours working on a project and exhaustion left him unable to form coherent sentences, but the ideas just would not stop coming. Distracting himself with something mundane and completely irrelevant – what was this thing, anyway? Scientific American. Must be Bruce's – sounded plausible, but as he flipped to the last page and then tossed the magazine on the floor, he was still very much awake.

He rolled onto his side and decided to try it the old-fashioned way; he closed his eyes. Diagrams of his project flashed before his eyes, his brain making automatic adjustments on the various gears and mechanisms to maximize efficiency. Not helpful. He focused on the sound of his heart beating. Bum bump. Bum bump. He started counting.

Eighty seven heartbeats later, Tony was startled out of his pattern by the sound of someone screaming. Three someones. Two female someones and a male someone. Two floors below (Tony had very good hearing). He sat up and swung his legs to the floor and was about to ask JARVIS what the hell was going on when he became aware of another ominous sound. A loud-wall shaking crash. Then another one, closer. Was something bursting through the walls of his house?

No sooner had he formulated the thought than a relatively small and silver object came bursting through the ceiling with a shower of dust and rubble and proceeded to crash through the floor in a similar fashion. Tony, completely awake now, leaped over the couch and headed for the door, wondering if his mansion was under attack by sentient toasters.

As he vaulted down the stairs three at a time, the object continued crashing its way through the house. Then, a pause. Suddenly, a sonic explosion erupted from one of the lower stories and every object in the house wobbled as if an earthquake had occurred. Tony had a sinking feeling in his stomach as his brain pieced together these events. As he skidded around the corner to one of the test rooms in the basement, he heard Thor boasting.

"Do not fear friends, the giant insect is dead!" he announced with pride. Tony wrenched open the door and took in the scene: Jane, Pepper, Bruce, Steve and Phil standing in a semi circle around a crater in the floor (actually, Jane was standing a nearby chair), dust drifting out of a hole in the ceiling, and Thor – clearly pleased with himself – standing in the middle of the crater, Mjolnir in hand. As one, they looked at Tony, whose face asked the question his mouth couldn't find words to: what happened?

Five faces instantly adopted looks of purest innocence and five hands pointed accusingly at the Norse god. He grinned in self-satisfaction.


	8. Pudding

Clint stood at the door of a rather massive pantry, staring at an empty shelf with a deadpan expression on his face. The shelf wasn't empty, really. It contained several boxes of instant rice, a dozen cans of heat-and-eat chili, some random jars of vegetables, a few packages of tea with Asian characters on the side, and at least four boxes of Pop Tarts, among other foodstuffs. But there was a bare spot in the middle, which had not been bare earlier that day, and it was this that Clint now stared at forlornly. Under his impassive face, his racing thoughts coalesced into a single resolve. Somebody is going to die.

His pudding was missing.

Most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had something completely and utterly mundane, be it habit, routine, food or even a stuffed animal, that they used to maintain sanity during rough periods. Clint's was pudding. Especially the little pudding cups that came in packages of four or six. After coming home from a day's work of shooting aliens, jumping off buildings and generally having the crap kicked out of him, there was something remarkably soothing about pulling the lid off a four ounce cup of pudding, scooping it out with his index finger, and popping it inside out when it was empty to lick it clean.

The first time he'd nonchalantly added his request to the shopping list on the fridge, Tony had cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Really?" he'd asked skeptically. Everyone in the mansion was still trying to find their footing as new housemates, so Clint shrugged it off. Over the next few weeks he became sullen and grumpy, and after he yelled at some junior agents at work for 'walking too loud,' Natasha put pudding back on the shopping list. Life returned to normal almost instantly.

He endured a fair amount of ribbing about it from his teammates at first, but it wasn't long before everyone realized that a happy Hawkeye contributed greatly to the ease of missions, and they left him alone. Whoever did the shopping – namely, Phil – made sure the pantry was well-stocked with an assortment of pudding cups including lemon, vanilla, tapioca and strawberry, but always containing plenty of chocolate.

And now it was missing. This was the fifth time in two weeks; obviously someone was taking it. And not just one or two at time, but whole packages. Nobody had made a crack about his unusual vice for several months now, so he wasn't sure why the sudden attack on his beloved pudding. He began formulating a plan.

Near the pantry stood a large cabinet with a decorative plant on top. Clint studied it for a moment, then climbed on top and squeezed himself in behind the giant fern, or whatever it was. He had just enough room to sit and a clear view of the pantry; perfect.

He arranged the stake out early the next morning, before anyone could notice and ask him what he was doing. Having placed a fresh package of pudding cups in the pantry, he situated himself on top the cabinet with his bow, some snacks and night vision goggles, in case this took a while. It would have been much simpler, he knew, to set up a hidden camera. But this is personal, he reminded himself as he rearranged the fern to disappear behind it completely. Clint settled in his nest to wait.

His mind was extremely well disciplined, but fourteen hours later, he was starting to get bored. He'd been on stake outs before, but this lacking was a certain kind of adrenaline that accompanied missions which staved off boredom.

The smell of the ocean and pine trees swirled around his perch on the cabinet, alerting him to a sudden change. The air below seemed to warble, like the shimmer above pavement on a hot day. Quite abruptly, Loki appeared in the corridor. Clint stared. I'll be damned, he thought as he took in the situation. The god of mischief looked around to make sure he was alone, but didn't bother to look up (he probably wouldn't have seen a human through the thick fern leaves even if he had). He opened the pantry door silently and bent down, rummaging through the contents. A moment later, he straightened up and Clint stared in disbelief as Loki clutched the brand new package of pudding in his hand and chuckled quietly.

Oh, HELL, no, Clint thought to himself. He nocked his arrow, and aimed for the chocolate cup furthest from Loki's hand. He grinned as he loosed the shot.

The pudding is about to hit the fan.


	9. Battle of the Titans

Steve Rogers and Tony Stark were in the middle of a heated battle. With each other.

"Oh, you did not just do that."

"Oh, I so did."

"You think that's funny?"

"I think it's hilarious."

"You're a jerk, Tony."

"Is that your best shot, Rogers?"

"No, THIS is my best shot." Steve suddenly lunged to the side, causing Tony to skid and nearly lose his grip.

"Oi!" Tony yelled, righting himself. There were several tense moments of silent struggle, then Steve began to pull away. The Man of Iron pulled out a cherry red object, one that he had been saving for this moment, and chucked it at his opponent. It ricocheted off the wall and exploded, sending Steve careening the other wall. Tony heckled as overtook his sometimes-ally.

"No!" Steve grunted as he righted himself and began moving again. "No, no, no…"

They both held their breath for the final few seconds. At long last, Tony's Sugarscoot went flying over the finish line, just milliseconds ahead of Steve's Super Blooper. Steve roared in defeat as the little animated characters on the TV completed a victory lap. He threw the white remote onto the sofa and sat with his arms crossed sullenly.

"Come on, man, one more game," Tony coaxed. "You can be the princess this time." This earned him a fist aimed at his shoulder, which he neatly avoided. The game sung itself out and returned to the main menu while Tony waited out the other man's sulking. Finally Steve squared his jaw and picked up the remote.

"Start the next level, Stark," he commanded, staring at the screen. Tony grinned.


	10. Sacrifice

Captain America sat on the Metrorail, fidgeting. He was wearing normal, civilian clothing, so he was actually just Steve Rogers, but whenever children recognized and pointed at him and asked for his autograph, it was Captain America who signed their little slips of paper. He was fidgeting because he was in Washington, D.C. and on his way to the World War II memorial there. Miss Potts was with him, for which he was very grateful because one, she knew the area and kept him from getting lost multiple times a day, and two, she was one of those blessed individuals who didn't have to constantly badger him about 'how he was feeling.'

Truth be told, he don't know what he was feeling right now. He had been wanting to visit the memorial for almost two months, ever since he found out about it. Fury had kept him busy with assignments, missions, and publicity stunts until just recently. Even this wasn't a complete vacation; arrangements had been made for a small camera crew to meet up with them and document Steve's visit to the memorial, because what could generate better press than Captain America visiting the Capitol on the Fourth of July?

Mostly, he was nervous. Because he didn't know what to say. He wanted honor his fallen comrades with an eloquent speech that would bring the memory of their sacrifice to the surface for all to admire. He wanted to grab the shoulders of the oblivious Americans riding the rail with him and shake them and make them understand that it was the heroic actions of the past that allowed such luxurious freedom today. But he just didn't have the words.

Miss Potts touched his forearm gently, indicating that this was their stop. As they exited the train, two eager journalists and a cameraman hurried up to greet them. Pepper graciously took care of introductions and small talk as they walked toward the memorial, leaving Steve alone with his thoughts. Thank god for Pepper.

As they approached the many-pillared monument, the camera crew had Steve wait at the sidewalk so they could film his approach. The sun was high in the sky, but not oppressively hot, and the crowds milling about were fairly small given that it was a holiday. He drummed his fingers on his pocket while he waited for the camera guy to get situated. What was he going to say?

He approached the memorial with appropriate levels of state and decorum, but he actually wanted to run. Run away from the ghosts of the dead – of his friends – which surely lingered in this place. He stepped inside in the oval and spent several minutes contemplating in front of the fountain. He felt no ghostly presences, which was a comfort, but he still had no words to do justice to memories of the men and women honored here.

Ignoring the camera and the small crowd that had started to recognize him, he strolled around the wall, reflecting on the relief images. Soon he was lost in memories – the enlistment lines, the training camp, his first deployment to Europe. The sound of automatic gunfire, the feel of wind whipping his face as he parachuted into enemy territory, the tastelessness of K rations. The memories came thick and fast, but still he could think of nothing to say. Not a single phrase to encapsulate his experience or honor his companions. He could practically feel the cameraman zooming in on his face, waiting for him to say something.

The living legend spent many long moments staring at the freedom wall covered in stars. He stood still for so long that the camera man actually hoisted his bulky equipment down to the ground and waited for him to move on. Steve stared at the stars, all four thousand of them, and the thought that he had refused to acknowledge in the months since his revival surfaced abruptly and assaulted his consciousness. What was it all for? The stars seemed to mock him and his ideals. What was it all for, Steve? Huh? Why did we have to die, Steve? The simple design emphasized the excessive loss of life that the wall represented. Steve had no answers for himself or the sparkling stars.

He turned and looked at the small crowd that had gathered behind him. Tourists, mostly, with cameras and backpacks and 'Your Guide to the Nation's Capitol" pamphlets stuck in their pockets. A little girl with bouncing pigtails sat on her father's shoulders, looking at him. When he met her gaze, she smiled, showing two missing front teeth. She clutched a small flag in her hand, which she waved at him in greeting. Behind the small crowd, Steve saw layer upon layer of humanity, picnicking in the park, running in the grass, strolling on the sidewalks. The feeling of celebration was unbridled and tangible, as if he could reach out and scoop a handful of patriotism out of the air. He looked back at the little girl, and his heart suddenly ached with the promise of her life laid out before her, and he wished with all his might that she might live in the happiness and freedom of this day, everlastingly. And then, he knew. He turned back to the monument.

Without preamble, the words came to him. The exact right words; the only words that needed saying. He placed his hand on the cool, white marble and bowed his head.

"Thank you, my friends, for everything."


End file.
